


Thunder

by cultfilmx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2290571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultfilmx/pseuds/cultfilmx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volatile and unruly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fan fiction, go easy on me. I'm making a playlist to accompany this soon.

For the third night that week she lay in bed, back stiff like a piano string. Her hands placed neatly on top of her stomach, her half-lidded eyes staring at the ceiling above her.

She could hear them clattering around in the kitchen. She could hear the hum and vibrato of their voices through the poorly insulated floors. She could hear nonsensical words being thrown around. She could hear Russian last names.

221C Baker Street wasn't as expected. Nothing about her move had gone as expected. In fact, she wasn't even sure what there was to expect. She had fantasized a posh young British woman to live above her, who would've invited her to her cocktail nights and show her off to her friends ("Listen to her precious American accent!"). She would've spent her time lost in the blur of constant drinking and the company of people she would never see again.

Instead, there were two men she hadn't met, but they terrified her.

The feeling in her stomach told her they were bad news. It seemed stupidly coincidental (if that was even the right word) that of all the places to end up, she'd end up right below Britain's most prized darlings. The initial excitement wore off quick as she pictured the amount of potential danger she could be in just by living below them. It suddenly struck her why the apartment was so cheap.

But why had they let her stay? How did they know she wasn't some kind of obsessive stalker? All it had taken was a few e-mails back and forth, and here she was. Her tired mind cycles with unanswered questions, she figures it's entertaining at least for a few hours.

Her watch lets out a quiet beep, indicating that it was now three in the morning. Not like it mattered, it just meant in four hours she was out the door for another round of failed job interviews.

Fresh out of college, the idea of travel on her mind; she had thought it clever to go traveling and gain some worldly wisdom. Instead, all she got was a dreadfully uncomfortable flight, some sort of 24-hour flu, and a miserable little room where the people above her enjoyed playing violin into the wee hours of the morning.

She sighs audibly, dragging herself out of bed. She imagines she looks like Garfield on a Monday. Grabbing her pack of smokes, she walks in the darkness to her door. Carefully feeling around as to not bump into anything.

She enters the hallway, shutting the door at an intentionally loud volume. Perhaps they would get the subtle hint that they were keeping her up. She took a moment to collect herself, still staring at her own doorway. A passing consideration of slamming her head into it quickly darts through her mind. She tries to adjust her thinking to be a bit more positive; After all, they had withheld the violin tonight.

"Hello?"

A voice awakes her from her dazed stupor. She spins around to find a man with nicely combed blond hair. He was buttoning up his well-kept coat.

"Hi. A bit late to being going out, no?" She wonders if he can smell her morning breath from the distance they're at.

"I could say the same for you." He laughs, "What are you up to?"

She wiggles her cigarette packet at him. He nods in understanding.

"Oh. Well, I hope we haven't kept you up with our n—"

His words were cut short as the sound of someone's feet making their way down the stairs. Another man came into sight, haughtily throwing his scarf over his shoulder; he looks her over very briefly. Then turns his eyes away.

"I know we haven't been very accommodating neighbours. Sorry again." He reaches out his hand to her. "I'm John."

She can't help but smile slightly. Maybe it was the fact that she knew who he was, or maybe it was that he was so much more charming in person. His blog didn't do his voice justice.

"Margo."

The two shake hands. She notes the roughness and size of his. It was nice to actually touch a person. She immediately regrets that train of thought and withdraws her hand in fear that he might have heard it through their touch somehow.

"What a beautiful sentiment."

Her eyebrows furrow.

"Excuse me?"

"Being named after your grandmother."

Without even glancing at her, the taller of the two exits the apartment.

Her smile drops. The all to familiar venom sinks in. The infamous anger that constantly nestled deep in her stomach arises. Being belittled by the world's most intelligent man should be some form of a compliment, that is, if you squint.

"Ah, look, that's Sherlock, he's…look, I'm sorry about that. Don't take him too seriously."

"It's not like he was wrong, after all, I was named after my grandmother."

Chuckling, he sends her a half hearted wave.

"Have a good one."

Then, she was alone, with that fucking horrible feeling in her stomach.

She gives up on the idea of a smoke. What she needed was a lot stronger.

xxx

She opens her eyes to him. Not his pacing footsteps, his hyper speed talking, or his endless hours of violin: but him.

"Lighter sleeper than I thought." She hears him mumble into his scarf.

"Was that all you thought about when you decided to enter my room?" She considers ripping his hair out of his skull.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid I left something here prior to your whole…arrival." He hasn't looked at her once this whole encounter.

Eyeing him, She notes how oddly his hands moved when he spoke. She also notes that she should install a new lock. Also maybe invest in pepper spray.

"There wasn't anything here when I came." She pulls her blankets up above her sports bra. The likelihood of Sherlock also being a pervert seemed very high.

He doesn't answer, instead he moves around her room in search of God knows what.

Checking her wrist, she observes the time and groans. Five thirty in the morning and she hasn't slept a wink. An aching headache begins to settle in, and the feeling in her stomach still remains.

"Do you do this to all your new neighbours? Most make cookies or something."

Grunting in reply, he continues ruffling through her pile of laundry. She can't help but lay there in silence, her knickers being flung around the room in some sort of fabric show.

"Do you mind?" Her head reaches a stage of tremendous throbbing.

He suddenly stands erect and begins to leave.

"…Thank you"?

His next action is to pat along the outside of the doorframe. Wonderful.

She feels her eyes practically roll to the back of her head. She almost throws her pillow at him, but instead covers her face with her hands and sighs.

"Look, can y—"

"I thought since you weren't going to be sleeping you wouldn't particularly mind. The jetlag should wear off by tomorrow night, and you'll be able to sleep efficiently."

"Oh, it wore off already."

"Excellent!" For a moment she questions if he's addressing her anymore. Her question is answered when he removes something tucked into the doorframe. Nothing surprised her at this point.

He begins to leave, the whirling in her stomach reaching a high intensity.

"Wait."

He stops.

For a moment she feels she has power, and she lets this sink in.

"It's Sherlock Holmes."

"I know, I have a computer."

"Then what?"

"My full name is Margaret. Like Atwood. I call myself Margo like The Royal Tenanbaums. You know? Wes Anderson?"

"Hmm."


	2. Chapter 2

When she did dream, it was of America.

She always dreamed like movies.

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

PAN to a WOMAN (41, pink dress, long brown hair)

CLOSE UP: dry lips. OFF-CAMERA we hear WEEPING.

She feels angry. In her dreams she's always angry.

She wakes up to the scream of her alarm. She manages to scrape the sleep out of the corner of her eyes and press the off button.

She flips open her phone, only to be greeted by a chain message from her Canadian friend wishing her a "Happy Thanksgiving". In a moment of confusion, she lets out a quiet 'what?' The confusion settles when she realizes she is in Britain now, and no such thing occurs here.

Hurling herself out of bed, she comes to another realization: if today is Canadian "Thanksgiving" then that means tonight is the 221 Baker Street dinner. She would spending the evening getting to know her cheery Landlord and ever-so polite housemates.

SHERLOCK (28, 6 '0", dark brown curly hair). She hadn't spoken to him for over two weeks. Not like she was complaining. Her stomach always felt better when she wasn't around him. She didn't feel the urge.

She removes her pajamas and begins to dress into her work clothing in the darkness. The only news she called home about was her full time job. Her mother faked enthusiasm, while her father sounded concerned. But tonight's dinner was the only true concern preoccupying her mind.

Xxx

"Your hair." JOHN (30, 5'6",, well-kept blonde hair) grins, reaching forward and running his hands through her fringe. Margo is unsure whether or not they are at that stage of friendship yet, but she lets it slide, playing nimbly with the choppy ends. She had done it herself a few nights ago; it had become a hassle to tie up at work.

"I thought with the whole moving to England thing, that cutting all my hair off wasn't that big of a deal."

"I think it…uh…"frames your face"? Is that right? That's a thing, right?"

"Yeah, it is. Thanks. "

"No problem. "

The two stand in silence waiting for the other to say something.

"Shou—" "I think that Sh—"

They both stop short, making eye contact with each other's necks and miscellaneous body parts.

"You go first." He mutters, a polite smile on his lips.

"No, it's fine, I—"

"I insist."

"…Well, I was just curious if I should bring anything for tonight?"

"Perhaps some wine? I can't imagine anything else will really be needed. Mrs. Hudson usually puts on a good show."

She swallows hard.

"Ok. Yeah. I can do that."

"Cool."

"Yes."

"Well…"

"Hmm?"

"See you later."

"Yeah. You too."

"Cheers."

He walks out and her lungs finally begin to work properly. God, what was wrong with her? She imagines John's thought process as he leaves the apartment, probably muttering about the crazy girl who lives below them. The worst part for Margo was the fact that that was the longest human interaction she had had in a week. Her job involved conversing with the plates she was washing. Not exactly high demand.

xxx

Wine in hand; she nervously knocks at the door three times. She hears the soft padding of feet, and after a moment, the door opens to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello dear! Come in!"

Margo somehow manages to step in without having her knees give out. Practically thrusting the bottle of alcohol into Mrs. Hudson's hands, she places a light kiss onto her cheek.

"Sorry I'm late. I appreciate you inviting me."

"None of that. I only made the dinner early because I knew that Sherlock and John would be late. You're actually right-" A knock sounds throughout the room. "On time!"

She grins cheekily at Margo, sending her a quick wink as she heads over to answer the door.

Margo sits herself quietly in the living room, listening to the chatter of her housemates. She tries imaging herself getting up and talking to them, hoping that if she thinks hard enough it might just occur.

"Lovely apartment you have."

"Thank you Deary!"

"You kept this? That's so sweet."

"I told you I was your biggest fan."

"Have you read the latest blog post?"

"No! I haven't, can't get th—"

"I see you invited the alcoholic to this event."

An exceptionally pregnant pause hangs in the air. She turns to make eye contact with him. Her stomach could've ripped her in two the pain was so unbearable.

"Good one." A fake laugh forces it's way out of her mouth. She surprises herself with her own lack of integrity. She scans the faces of the other two presences in the room. Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows are knitted together as she stares in thought at the floor. John, on the other hand, has managed to fold his mouth into a thin line and scratch the back of his head indefinitely.

"Who wants tea!?" Mrs. Hudson finally shrieks, causing Margo's stomach to flip.

xxx

The tightness in her chest begins to lessen when they all sit down to eat. The tension had eased and Margo found herself actually having fun. However, this did not stop her from boring holes into her plate with her eyes.

He knew. They met maybe twice, and he could see it on her face. He was just as intelligent and egotistical as he was described.

"So how are you enjoying it here, dear?"

Margo snaps out of her reverie, unsure of how they reached this subject.

"It's pretty great. Quite a culture shock, for sure."

"I can imagine. How's your work going?"

"It's good, just n—"

"Not what you came here for?" His voice is velvet, his words are poison.

"Yes. I guess so." She notices how at ease he is. His dark blue collared shirt unbuttoned at the top, his hair sculpted to an imperfect perfection. She imagined with the combination of attractiveness and intelligence, Sherlock deeply lacked in social skills. At least they had something in common.

"Hmm, What did you come here for?" Watson manages, after finishing a swig of wine.

She remembers the correct way to answer this. Something she had formulated in her head prior to moving. She breathes in, allowing that venomous feeling to sink back down.

She looks up from her plate; she imagines a light glaze has settled across her eyes.

"I broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years, and… I wanted a break. A fresh start."

Mrs. Hudson places a wrinkled hand over her chest. She frowns, and shoots Sherlock a dirty look. As if to say 'how could you blame her?'.

"I'm so sorry, Deary! "

"No, no. He was a dick. The whole cheating and lying bit. He gas lit me, he stole from me, he convinced me that all relationships were like that…You just never expect it to happen to you, right?"

"Sounds like a real wanker." John grumbles bitterly, reaching across the table to lay his hand on hers.

"Couldn't have said it better myself. I guess I don't quite do that word justice unless I have the accent." She grins, and lets a fake tear slide down her face just a tad before wiping it off.

There it is. That weird power she taps into. When she wants to be, she is so goddamn charming and the world revolves around her.

She feels the sudden appreciation flooding from John and . They looked at her differently. She is golden.

"Tell me, Margo, why do you feel the need to lie?"

In a moment flat, shame has found its way to sink in. Of course, of course he had caught her.


	3. Chapter 3

Margo was never good on her toes. She was well known even in High School for being rash and hasty. She would often find herself in situations in which she would often smack herself for later. Whether it be sleeping with a TA or taking one too many of her friend's ADHD meds the night before an exam, Margo was volatile and unruly.

In Margo's books, the only way to face something that made her uncomfortable was to make it further uncomfortable. She was unsure where this strategy had grown from, but it worked for her.

She let out a wry laugh. Fluttering her eyelashes dramatically, she turns to him, making excellent eye contact with his neck.

"Quite the comedian! I love the whole "pretending-you-know-me" shtick! It's very cute." The cold air from the fan circling above her stings her skin, creeping its way across her flesh and turning into goose bumps.

The reaction on his face is indescribable, but it releases something inside of her she hadn't expected. Some fine combination of shame and pleasure.

She could feel her words betraying her as she turned to Mrs. Hudson, "Mind if I have some wine?"

"Not at all, dear." There was a lilt of something skeptical in her voice.

"Good." Her voice comes out husky; she pushes her chair out and gets up, fixing the length of her dress.

It feels like slow motion as she makes her way from her seat to the counter where she fetches the bottle. Her feet practically drag across the floor. She imagines tumbleweeds rolling around in the room like some old Western.

She feels herself shaking. She could practically hear her mother all the way from America ("You made a promise!").

She begins to pour for herself, her eyes carefully following the maroon liquid as it swings around and swirls in her glass. The shaking of her hands makes the pouring procedure even more difficult. She knows he could see her quivering like a vibrator. She hears his tongue click.

"I was told by the man at the shop that this was his girlfriend's favourite!"

Margo flirtatiously looks up at John. His face reddens slightly.

"I told him that this wasn't for my girlfriend, but I was still trying to impress."

All she gets for a response is an awkward chuckle from John and Mrs. Hudson, while Sherlock practically rolls his eyes out of his head.

"Well, he told me his girlfriend was a French horn player, so here's hoping she has good taste!"

The words feel foreign leaving her lips. The jokes feel pre-meditated and unlike her. She is lying. This is not the impression she had intended on making.

"Anyone?" She is sure it came out more as a croak than a question. Perhaps they would think she was 13-year-old boy rather than a young woman. Excellent.

Mrs. Hudson and John offered their glasses.

She swallows hard before pouring more.

xxx

She manages to sit him down on her bed.

"Stop. Okay. Don't move." She laughs obnoxiously loudly. Her face is flushed, her short hair glued to her forehead with sweat. She lifts her hands into a "frame" shape. Keeping her hands like that, she speaks. "I went to film school, you know?"

"Really? Like acting or?"

"Yeah. Well, directing and production design too and stuff. Oh Jesus, I used to love to film men."

John begins laughing so hard he has to clutch at his shirt in order to breathe. She feels her cheeks warm in delight. She is laughing with him. She suddenly halts.

"Why are you laughing? I make porn."

John freezes, swallowing hard.

"Oh, God, I'm so s-"

"Nah, I'm fucking with you."

His entire frame visibly relaxes as the two of them return to their boisterous chortling.

"I just think men have these freaky details that women don't have!" She tickles her hands over his button nose, and then traces the outline of his mouth.

John shoves her lightly, which nearly causes her to tip over backwards. He grabs her roughly, pulling her back to a normal sitting position. He doesn't let go.

"That's not what I meant!" She giggles almost childishly. "You're very strong, you know."

He releases her. She reaches forward, and takes a feel of his muscles from over his shirt and sweater.

"I used to be in the army."

"Do you have scars?"

"Yes."

"Can I see them?"

He stares at her in silence for a moment. The taboo nature of her comment runs right over her head.

"So wait, you're an army doctor!?"

"Yes, mam."

She slides off her bed and lies on the floor. He removes his sweater and joins her. They are now staring at the drywall of her ceiling. She fights the temptation to reach for his hand. She's drunk enough to let the temptation win.

"Ew."

His grip on her hand loosens.

"What?"

She rolls onto her side, making hazy eye contact. All the alcohol running through her seems to twist and rock wildly inside of her. His eyes are steely. That's a word she likes.

"You said 'mam'." She imitates his accent a bit at the end.

"You don't like that?"

"No. I much prefer Mademoiselle."

He laughs. He finds her funny. Or maybe he is so drunk he finds everything funny.

"Or Mistress, actually." A tuft of her bleached hair falls in front of her face, she brushes it aside with her free hand.

She notices he is no longer listening, just laughing robotically. She tries to understand, to somehow make clarity of the situation. She can tell he is lost in thought, just staring. She looks down at herself and notices the way her dress is falling off of her shoulders. He is staring at her.

She couldn't remember the last time someone paid attention to her like this. If they did, she hadn't noticed. The usual nausea in her stomach is replaced by arousal. Not at the concept of having sex with John, but at the concept of having sex in general. It had been awhile. She could only have sex when she was drunk. It was so much easier that way.

She snaps out of her reverie when he reaches forward and plays with her fringe like he had earlier.

Her face heats up. She feels a distressing need to tell him her thoughts. She is happy how much she feels most like herself when she is drunk. Her anxiety is quieted, her drive heightened. She considers how easy it would be at this moment to lean forward and kiss him, or to run her hands over him, or to slowly lower herself ontop of him or to remove the top of her dr-

"I'm not going to sleep with you." It comes out of her mouth before she's even registered it.

"Why not?" He sounds disappointed, but genuinely curious.

"Because I don't want to ruin your life."

"How would you be ruining my life? We're ad—"

"Because I want to ruin someone else's."

He sits up, and grabs a bottle of Scotch he had placed at the edge of her bed. He takes a swig, before passing the last of it to her. Down it goes.

Then another.

Then she is laughing again. So is he. Yes, he is.

She her words purring in his ears, her mind reeling wildly with nothing in particular, and next thing she knows they are on her bed again. He hangs on her every word; he holds onto her every movement. When she is good, she is very, very good. And when she was bad, she was rotten.

She climbs on top of him sloppily. He looks up at her half-lidded, possibly lustful. She feels him pressing against her thigh.

She says something she shouldn't.

"I'm going to ruin Sherlock Holmes."

His face falters temporarily. She feels his interest slipping, so she readjusts herself on him. The want for her returns.

"Oh really?" He grins, "And how exactly will you do that?"

She leans in very close to his ear. She can feel him hardening. If she weren't so sloshed she would be out the door by now.

"I'll make him fall in love with me."


	4. Chapter 4

She forgets for the second week in a row to turn her alarm off on a Saturday. She feels the urge to punch her past self in the face for being so forgetful.

Her head throbs wildly as she smothers her face back into her pillow. She curses her past self once more for putting her in this state. Nursing a hangover was Margo's least favourite part about drinking. Unfortunately, once Margo was awake it was nearly impossible to fall back asleep, no matter how painful of a migraine she encounters.

She lays still for a moment, then regrettably feels the desire to fill her lungs with cancer.

"Shit." She mutters to no one in particular.

She collects her lighter and pack, placing some proper pants on before launching herself into the cold London air. The best part about London was the cloudy, grey sky; it was something close to putting the world on "dim". The softened light was a blessing in comparison to the glaring sun from her hometown.

"Good morning, Margaret. Enjoying your hangover from a night of binging and relapsing?"

As if the freezing temperature hadn't done a number on her headache, his voice seemingly worsened her state of being.

"It's Margo, like Royal Tenanbaums. I told you." She spits up some phlegm onto the ground in an attempt to be threatening. She ends up getting some on her chin, and regrettably wipes the residue of it onto her sleeve. "Also, shut up."

She can't decide whether or not to kill him in order to have a smoke in peace or if she was better off returning to her room and setting it on fire with her inside of it.

Either way, both would be more pleasant than spending more than a minute beside him.

She sneaks a peak of his face. She notes how his eyes seem distant, clearly deep in thought. That compelling grade school need to make friends with the cool crowd comes in and she realizes she should probably make an effort to be on good terms with The Psychopath-Next-Door. The usage of the words "good terms" should be interpreted loosely of course.

"You smoke?" She manages, what her mother would often address as her "attempt to appear normal".

"Rarely. Only when I'm feeling particularly bored, or incredibly irritated." He says as though it were clear as day. He sends her a look.

"Am I boring you? Or worse, irritating you?" She chides impishly.

His eyes flick over her entire body. Her stomach immediately twists, and her migraine becomes more prominent.

"That's irrelevant."

"I'll take that as a yes." She mutters, her stomach jittering wildly as she attempts to light her cigarette. She stands there for a moment, struggling against the breeze and her lighter. She is practically begging for the nicotine out loud. She considers praying to Jesus for her cigarette to light itself instead of asking Sherlock for a favour.

"I didn't think take you as the religious type."

She feels the embarrassment one might feel when they are caught praying to an entity for a lit cigarette.

A sudden surge of confidence overcomes her as she turns to Sherlock.

"Bend down."

He looks intently at her. She can only imagine what is going through his brain. Something along the lines of killing her slowly and painfully seemed the most likely.

"I said, bend down."

He gives her a face that would suggest she was sprouting wings.

She places her hands on his shoulders (which were quite a ways up) and pulls him forward. He doesn't resist her, oddly enough. Perhaps out of curiosity.

She leans in.

"Now inhale through your smoke."

She cups the space where their cigarettes touch until finally she can taste the tobacco in her mouth.

He pulls back immediately after hers is lit and exhales loudly as if to exaggerate the difficulty of the task.

"Almost like kissing." She laughs weakly.

"Not in the slightest."

She once more feels the urge to strangle him (she has lost count at this point). An image of her kissing him sprints through her aching mind. She can feel her migraine worsen at the thought.

She notices how fair and clear his skin is. Like an acne model. She pictures him splashing his face charismatically, grinning as the water is spooned from the sink and beautifully flows around his face.

"Do you want to know how I knew you were lying?"

She inwardly smacks herself out of her thoughts.

"Depends, I guess."

"Hmm?"

She imagines him turning to the camera, holding a well-lit product, a smile dividing his face.

He quirks an eyebrow at her. She realizes she has been silent for a hint too long to pass as a normal social interaction.

"On which lie."

"Which would you prefer?"

"Well…"

The two smoke in silence, Sherlock finishes his first and tosses it onto the street.

"The five year relationship one—you know, the reason I tell people I moved here."

"Oh. That one is far too easy." A tiny smirk appears onto his lips. She tries to mentally prepare herself for whatever bullshit he was to launch her way.

"How so?"

"You're far too unstable to stay with someone for five years."

Fuck you, acne model.

xxx

A soft knock at her door causes her to shutter in fright.

"Gah—yes?"

"It's me."

"Come in, actually, one second."

She pulls her boxer shorts up a little bit. Then pulls them back down to where they were. She considers pulling up again, but then realizes that she very well could be losing her mind. It was just her neighbour. Relax.

Well, neighbour she's slept with. In a drunken state. Oh god. She hadn't even begun to deal with the mental repercussions of that. She had barely been living here two months and she'd already managed to screw her one flatmate, and piss off the other. She crafts a plan to move, or maybe change her name or—

"Margo?"

"Sorry, yup, come in."

John lets himself in and slowly pads his barefeet over to where she is sitting.

"Your floor is freezing, how can you sit on it?"

She is surprised by how at ease John is. Then again, the man was sufficiently older than she was; perhaps he'd screwed a fair number of his past roommates. An especially homoerotic image pops into her head. She is not particularly against said image.

"I manage."

His eyes flick over her face, then her chest, then to the activity before her.

"What in the world are you doing?"

He sits down in front of her. She tries to recall how he appeared nude, but can't seem to withdraw the image from her blurry memory.

"Will you think I'm lame if I tell you?"

"Potentially."

"Well, when I was a first year—"

"In College?"

"No, high school actually."

"Seems so long ago for you, doesn't it?"

"Says the man almost eight years older than me."

The two grin at each other. Perhaps things were okay. Margo couldn't remember the last time she had slept with someone and not dealt with some sort of deeply awkward or emotional results.

"Anyways, I was buddies with a bunch of girls—"

"—Extraordinary!"

"Will you let me finish?"

"Yes."

"We were all into really superstitious stuff and 'weird' movies and all that and…I taught myself tarot. It sort of stuck. I'm not sure if I believe in it, but it's more a habit than anything."

She wonders if even remembers they had fucked. The rush of anxiety hits her like a train.

"So what do these cards mean?"

"This is a daily reading about myself. These three cards represent my past, my present, and my future."

"So this guy…?"

"My past card is Five of Pentacles."

"Which means?"

"A loss, often self-created."

"And this?"

"My present card is The Hanged Man."

"Yes?"

"Waiting. Suspension."

"And the future?"

She flips the last card over.

"This is the Death card—"

"Pleasant."

"Well, it's a good thing in tarot…sort of. "

John looks at her skeptically. She runs a hand through her choppy fringe.

"Nothing is destroyed, no one dies. It just means transformation of some kind. It means change."


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock."

Sherlock can see her through the window; taking vicious drags from her third cigarette in a row. Her greasy hair is scattered across her forehead. She is pacing back and forth a long the block. Something about this routine intrigues him.

"…Sherlock?"

He watches her toss her third cigarette to the pavement, smushing it dramatically underneath her feet. She mumbles some sort of mantra to herself, followed by some sort of readjustment to her bra. After a moment of staring at her feet, she decidedly enters the house.

"Sherlock, you've been staring out that window for the last half hour."

He listens to the tread of her footsteps as pads into the apartment.

"I don't suppose you're interested in bird watching now?"

Sherlock swivels his head in John's direction.

"Margaret is home."

John's eyebrows shoot up, a grin playing on his lips.

"Is she? Is that why you've been staring out that window?"

Sherlock doesn't even bat a lash.

"You've been waiting for her, have you?"

The detective opens his mouth to reply with what John could only presume to be his usual amount of blunt quips, but is interrupted by a hammering at the door.

"John?" Came Margo's voice from behind the entrance of 221b.

John shoots Sherlock a look, as if to say 'I win'. Sherlock scoffs haughtily as he turns his attention to the violin placed beside him.

"She's been fired. Her boss thinks she's too moody."

John stops midstride, whipping around.

"That's not true, Margo is perfectl—"

A soft wailing noise emits from outside the door, followed by a few weak knocks.

Sherlock and John share a look.

"Shut up."

xxx

"Are you sure you want to see this?"

"Of course."

Margo feathers her hair once more with the towel, before throwing it on the floor.

She joins John on her bed and opens up her laptop, the soft hum filling the silence of the room. She pulls her oversized shirt over her legs until only her toes peak out from underneath.

"I might have to look away, I haven't watched this thing in years."

"Don't be ridiculous. Shouldn't artists never apologize?"

"I don't think there's a rulebook to being an artist, and if there was, I'm pretty sure that's not in it."

"I've never seen a film where the opening title sequence has an apology to the audience."

She flicks his face lightly. He sends her a look she can't quite manage to read. She wonders if he thinks this is a romantic occasion. She muffles those thoughts as she types in the password to her laptop.

"Ok, ok. Let me just remind you then, that I am by no means an expert filmmaker. Don't expect some sort of masterpiece. "

"I'm sure it's great, Marg."

Margo physically shutters.

"I beg of you, don't call me that. You sound like my Mom."

He laughs quietly, as she opens up the file and presses play.

The video starts.

She suddenly becomes very aware of his warmth next to her. The realization that she may have made a friend hits her like a bullet train. She wonders what her mother would think. Then she begins to wonder if he's even her friend. Maybe he's waiting for the next opportunity that she spreads her legs.

Her stomach clenches.

Just as the dialogue is about to begin, she presses pause.

John flinches in surprise, turning to look at Margo who has her head buried into her hands.

"Wha…Margo? Are you alright?

"I jufh…"

He takes her hands from her face.

"I just can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself."

She wonders what he is thinking.

He wishes he could kiss her or hold her without it being considered an inappropriate gesture.

"Does that make sense?"

She stares at his eyes so intently he feels as if she's trying to see through him.

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing, I promise."

xxx

"Are you intoxicated?"

"No, Mom." Margo hisses venomously, turning around to see her favourite of the two neighbours.

"I don't believe you."

"Are you going to send me to my room or something?"

She makes sure to over enunciate in some moronic (and she knows it) attempt to fool the world's most hyperaware man.

She fumbles with her front door key, trying to place it in the lock. In her inebriated state she manages to drop them with a loud clang. She can practically hear Sherlock smirk.

She turns around to meet his presumably judgmental gaze. She presumes correctly.

"Did you follow me down to my room just to patronize me?"

He doesn't respond. Per usual.

She rolls her eyes.

"Good night." He pushes these words out in the most demeaning fashion he can before turning back up the staircase. She wonders if she could turn his scarf into a noose, and somehow pretend it was suicide. Makes sense that such a genius man was also a tortured soul. It all added up.

Just as he rounds the corner, her thoughts fall silent. She can feel a swell of emotion rumble in her stomach and fumble their way up and threw her mouth.

"Why do you hate me?"

He stops himself, and slowly returns so that the two of them can make eye contact.

He blinks, and makes an expression that leads her to believe he is slightly startled. He looks as if he doesn't know what to say.

She assumes it is the disillusioning quality of the alcohol. There was no chance that The Sherlock would have nothing to say.

"Hate is a powerful word."

"Well, you sure as hell don't like me!" For the second time that day Margo lets tears dribble down her face. The humiliation of the whole event makes her cry harder.

The two stand in the silence Margo has created.

"I mean, if you're this amazing detective, and you know everything about me, and you know why I'm here, and all my dark, twisted, fucked up, hidden away shit -why do you hate me?"

He takes a moment, observing her quietly.

For a hint of a second she considers brushing his bangs out of his face. She finds his cupid bow endearing. She finds his stupid eyes endearing. She finds his nothingness, his stupid fucking dumb face endearing. She finds his inability to be a person so goddamn endearing it pains her.

"Hmm."

Margo snaps out of her thoughts. And with that, he enters 221B, leaving Margo and the aftertaste of her liquid courage.


	6. Chapter 6

"You have heterochromia, don't you?"

She has placed herself so close to his face, that he almost immediately assumes she is drunk. She practically sticks her fingers into his eye in an attempt to open them further. He concludes that she is drunk.

However, when the coolness of her breath hits his face, he can smell she is not. Odd.

"Perhaps."

She pulls back from him. He takes the opportunity to look at her pupils for signs of dilation, however, he finds himself noting how remarkably close they are to the colour of milky breakfast tea. No dilation, meaning no signs of drug intake or sexual attraction.

"You mean to tell me that the most observant man on the planet doesn't know his own eye colour? You need a therapist."

He frowns, and chooses to ignore her by pretending to indulge in an upside down newspaper in front of him. However, her eyes are still on him. He can feel them. He wants to tell her to stop. Right now. This instant. Immediately.

"That's kind of cute."

He flinches. In the corner of his eye he can see her smile.

It didn't take a consulting detective to notice Margo's unusual level of cheeriness this morning. He can only presume that the reasoning for this is one of the following:

1) She took place in sexual activity? (Or is going to?)

For a moment he wonders if it was/will be with John. The thought of the two together seemed highly illogical considering...considering...He saves that thought process for later.

He checks her pupils again, but they are normal. He observes the tenseness of her (lack of) muscles and her (awkward) body language as she sits beside him staring out the window, but nothing has differed too extraordinarily. This helps him come to the conclusion that she was in fact not responding to any upcoming or passed sexual conquests.

2) She is having a manic episode.

He was still trying to diagnose whether Margo suffered from some sort of PTSD, Bi-polar or Manic Depression. Ever since the conversation they had a few nights ago, his theories were up in the air.

3) She had slept well?

By the state of her eyes and hair this was clearly untrue.

4) She was excited to John

Potentially. But she was never this excited. Unless...

5) She was excited to see him?

He realizes he is furrowing his eyebrows. He relaxes his face, trying to create the illusion of neutralness. He is thankful that her eyes remained outside, and she had missed that.

"So, is John getting here soon?"

"I hadn't realized he had left."

"He texted me telling me he had a surprise for me!"

"Perhaps you could have delayed your little visit to our flat until he arrived."

"Nah, too excited."

"Of course. " He mumbles, understanding the reasoning for her behaviour now. He felt slightly foolish for even considering any other theories. Margo was a child who's feelings were splayed across her face.

"Hmm? Care to share what you just mumbled?"

She leans in closer beside him, her face is far too close, she is challenging his personal bubble. Again.

"No."

He gets up and strides to the other side of the room to fix the positioning of his favourite decoration and second favourite company: a human skull.

John enters through the front door. He removes his wet coat and joins Margo on the couch with a sigh. For a moment him and Margo stare, fixated entirely on Sherlock, who now had his back towards them, quietly murmuring to his inanimate friend.

"Alright then." John manages, slapping his hands onto his legs. "You're probably curious why I invited you all here today."

The room falls quiet.

"Well, Sherlock, as you may or may not know, Margo here is an ex-film student."

The consulting detective raises an eyebrow, still keeping his back towards his roommate. He had known. Obviously.

John continues.

"And if I do recall, our recent case involves discovering whether or not Amanda Livington, B-List Model and Actor is in fact guilty for the murder of Chelsea Faust's brothe—"

"No." Sherlock interrupts.

"I haven't even told you my idea yet!"

"No. She is not helping us with the case."

"Why?" Margo asked evenly.

"Firstly, " Sherlock begins to pace angrily to and forth, "she is far too impulsive to be trusted with something of this great of an importance. Secondly, she may be a film student, but she isn't an actress, nor is she trained to a professional's extent with a camera. Thirdly, she would just get in the way."

From the corner of her eye she can see John's face redden in anger.

Margo finally squeaks out a comment:

"Well, thank you for that . Very insightful."

The rest of the world is a blur, and she doesn't even remember how she got back to her room.

Above her were the noises of yelling and a screeching violin.


	7. Chapter 7

Margo felt as if she were at an ultimate low.

A soft knock on her door.

"Yup?"

John entered her room cautiously.

"It's ok, I locked up the guard dogs. You can come in."

John sent her a tiny smile.

"Um. Marg—"

"I know, I know, you're 'sorry about that' and yadayada. I know, John."

She stands from her bed slowly, and makes her way towards him. He notes that she has changed into a thin t-shirt and no bra.

"Just another reason to kill him off, right?"

She gives him a toothy grin, showing off her set of slightly yellowing teeth. He can smell the faint musk of cigarettes and some perfume he was sure one of his ex's wore.

He chuckles softly.

She is standing very close to him.

"I feel like I came here thinking everything was going to get better."

"And it hasn't?"

She reaches out, grabbing her fingers around his wrist.

"Not in the slightest."

"Care for a drink?"

xxx

Even before entering, Sherlock knew they had company.

"—Right!? Exactly what I said! But she absolutely refused! "

John and Margo sat cozily on the couch. Sherlock noted their pink faces and loud speech immediately.

"Starting up on old habits, I see?"

Her face fell. In one swift movement, she had gotten herself up from the couch and was making her way across the room.

"Wait, Marg—"

But she wasn't leaving.

"Are you afraid of losing control, Mr. Holmes?"

He notes her wobbly legs, her hands gripped tightly onto a bottle of Fireball, and relatively see-through attire. He can see the faint outline of her breasts and the tiny mole that sits on her collarbone.

After a moment of not responding, she takes a step forward.

"I don't think you know how to have fun."

"I would not mistake self pity as fun."

She lets that comment sit for a moment.

"Let me work for you."

"No."

"Please. I'll do anything."

"No."

"Why not?"

"We've gone through this."

"If I screw this up, I'll move out."

Sherlock looks her over.

"Deal."


	8. Chapter 8

"Psst."

He opens one eye.

She is standing above him. He notices she is wearing a faint pink lipstick. Odd.

He closes his eye.

"Psssssst."

He opens both his eyes.

"What?"

"Can I ask you something?"

He doesn't respond. She sits herself at the foot of the couch he is lying on.

"Do you know how to lie?"

He scoffs.

"With ease."

"Really? How?"

He gives her a look as if to imply she were some sort of Neanderthal.

"If you insist."

Margo nods, tucking her legs in and placing her head against her knees.

Sherlock sits up, taking her in.

"It's in the voice. You have to make sure it's consistent."

"Ok."

"No nose touching or mouth covering."

"Alright."

"Don't be afraid of eye contact."

"Sure."

"Keep your pulse and blood rate down. No sweating."

"What if it's hot out?"

He sends her a look that could knock a house down.

"Don't fidget. Commit to character. Watch your words. But most importantly, answer well to questions."

"Cool, alright. So show me what you got."

With a simple breath Sherlock was someone else.

"Are you okay?" The look of concern that ran across his face was unlike anything she had seen in the past few weeks.

"Hmm?" She managed through her giggles.

"You just seem not like yourself lately, love." He reached forward placing his hand on her wrist.

Margo practically shuddered. She was expecting something good, but not this.

"I'm good, thank you." She grinned. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?"

He placed removed his hand from her arm and placed it gently against his chest.

"I'm worried about us. You seem distant."

"Oh, but monsieur, my father says we cannot be!"

She expects him to break, or to give her the usual dirty look, but instead he reaches forward and sweeps her hair from her eyes.

"You're so funny. How did I ever end up so lucky to be with someone like you?"

Her heart feels like it's going to fall out of her ass.

By some strange coincidence, the sun removed itself from behind the clouds and flooded gently into 221B. He looked angelic. His hair glowing reddish blonde under the light.

Oh God.

Oh. God.

This was not good.

Her adrenaline begins to pump.

"Love?" He asks her for what might have been the third time, she wasn't quite sure.

He leans in. She knows this. Sure, she had been single for almost four years now, but she was no stranger to this.

She can feel her eyes growing wide.

His hand snakes it's way around her neck as he draws himself closer.

"Stop!" She shrieks, shifting away from him and raising her hands to cover her face. "Just…Stop."

When she does remove her hands from her eyes she notices he is laying back on the couch with his eyes shut once more.

The stillness on his face frightens her. How he can go from one emotion to the next. When she wanted him to lie to her she expected him to tell her pet died, not to be her lover.

She sits there for a moment, and then runs a hand through her hair, leaving it messier than before.

"Thank you for that."

She almost sprints out of the room.

xXx

Margo ends up spending the rest of the day thinking about touching herself.

She tries occupying herself by inventing a new persona for their case.

She plays around with mannerisms of movie characters and her friends from high school. She tries jumbling out a mess of an accent but to no avail.

She tries to be someone who would be successful in the film world. Someone unlike herself, someone who could prove to Sherlock that she was worthy.

Worthy. She immediately regrets this choice of wording. Worthy implied that she had to impress him. Margo did not impress anyone. Not even herself.

Twat.

She tries to recall what tips Sherlock had told her earlier. Nothing comes to mind. All that she can picture are his dumb, weird eyes. His gaze had oozed with sincerity and appreciation.

"Goddamit."

She pictures him shirtless.

Hmm.

With a six pack.

No wait; screw that, a four pack. Sherlock did not leave the house enough to have a six pack.

In defeat, she pulls her dress over her head until she is in nothing but her undergarments. "Goddammit."

She sits herself down on her bed, back supported by the wall. She places her hand on the outside of her underwear.

Inhaling, she slowly begins to trace circles on herself. She immediately feels stupid and pulls her hands away from herself.

"FUCK." She screams out a little too loudly.

She hears the footsteps of what she can only assume is John running down the stairs. He flings the door open.

"Margo! Are you al—uh…"His eyes trace over her lack of clothing. "I'm sorry, did I intrude on something?"

She groans, knocking her head back against the wall.

"I'm just…going to…" John slowly begins to reclose her door. "Yeah."

Once again she was left alone and to her own insane devices.

xXx

"Sorry 'bout earliar."

John takes her by such a surprise she nearly drops her cigarette.

"And sorry about scaring you. Right now."

She gives him an infamous Cheshire grin.

"It's cool, John, we're housemates, you're pretty much guaranteed to see me rub one out at some point or another."

He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Thankfully that time has not come between me and Sherlock. Though he does enjoy parading around in the nude from time to time."

"I'd do the same were you my roommate." She throws a melodramatic wink his way before taking a seat onto the front steps of 221 Baker Street.

Margo twists her face into an ugly expression.

"Take a seat my Johnny-boy 'ol chap deary-ho and tell me about this upcoming case!"

Margo puffed the cigarette in and out of her mouth as if it were a pipe.

"Excellent English accent Margo. Couldn't have done it better myself."

Margo bars out a laugh.

"Sherlock said he was teaching you how to act earlier, but he never mentioned how talented you were!"

Margo flicked her cigarette onto the street.

"He mentioned that, hey?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"He's a real piece of work."

John opens his mouth to speak.

"Don't apologize for him." Margo pokes out her tongue.

"I just have to say this, but I'm mildly impressed by the fact that Sherlock let you on the case."

"Well, he's only letting me because he thinks I can't do it."

"Hmm. I guess so. I just can't imagine him letting someone help in the first place if he thought they were going to fail."

Margo tilted her head to the side slightly.

"Touché."


	9. Chapter 9

"So?"

"No."

Margo's face fell.

"Why not!?"

"Not even an imbecile would believe that was real hair."

Margo pulled the blonde wig off of her head.

"They said it was real hair."

"It's not."

"Fine, fine. I'll work on that part later. In the mean time, you two listen up."

All eyes land on her, she feels her face grow hot. She forgets to inhale for a moment, coming to notice how attractive the two men in front of her were. She notices John is wearing a new sweater. Hmm.

"Any time in this millennium, Margaret."

"Sorry." She fumbles her hands in her bag until she pulls out a notebook. "Here are some ideas."

She methodically inhales and exhales.

"John."

John sends her a playful wink.

"Yes, okay, well, you're going to be the Production Manager, better known as the Project Manager. PM for short."

"What in the hell is a Production Manager?"

"You're basically in charge of everything business related. Budget is your game. You're the one who schedules shooting scripts, and writes up the payments for actors and such. So much as you understand what everyone's role is, this is a pretty easy "character" to be."

Margo pulls out a large pile of loose-leaf papers from her bag.

"These are some of the files you would actually have to fill out in real life. And this…"

Margo pulls out a sketchbook; she flips through many pages of doodling and scribbling.

"Is what you will look like, your birthday, your name, your goddamn favourite kindergartner teacher if you want. Everything is here."

"Holy shit, Margo. " John manages, flipping through the giant pile of paper.

"Look, I believe in telling my actors everything. When I directed, there wasn't a single thing not micromanaged."

Sherlock lets out a sigh.

She looks at him, trying to read the expression on his face.

"What? What now?" She questions exasperatedly.

"This is a bit…unorthodox." He practically sneers.

"Unorthodox? Or just not how you imagined it?" She smirks. He takes note of the fact that she is once again wearing that pink lipstick from the other day.

"Who do you plan to be?" John interrupts.

"A producer named Billy Walsh."

Sherlock indulges himself in a long, hearty laugh.

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes." Margo frowns, her lip curling into a thin line. "It's a girls' name too."

"I'm aware, however, it hasn't been used in quite sometime for women. You'll stick out like a sore thumb."

"Just wait, ok?"

"So, Billy, what role will you have me playing?" Sherlock sings, sending her an exceptionally non-genuine smile.

"You will be Matt, my PA."

Sherlock's smile fades.

"Your her what?" John asks.

"Her personal assistant."

"So…?"

"My bitch." Margo runs her tongue over her teeth mockingly.

xXx

"Can't sleep?"

"Hmm."

"You know, you've never done that thing to me."

"Thing?" He lifts his eyes from what he is reading.

"The thing,where you tell everyone about themselves in like ten seconds. I mean, it isn't really fair for you since we've been living together a couple of months, but I wanna hear it."

"Oh, so you're ready now?"

Margo's eyebrows shot up.

"Ready?"

"Well, you certainly were in no state of mind to hear it when you first arrived. "

"What? You were afraid I'd have a mental breakdown?"

Sherlock falls silent, propping his legs up onto the kitchen table.

"Point taken."

He smiles to himself.

Show off.

"Will you do it then?"

"Yes."

"So you think I'm ready to hear it now?"

"No."

Margo feels the desire to smash his head between the doors of the refrigerator.

"I'll do it anyways," Sherlock inhales, placing his hands into the shape of a tent. Margo feels her gut clench in anticipation.

"You're a liar, at least you feel the need to lie in order to your ego and you-"

"Haven't we gone over this?"

Sherlock tsks.

"No interrupting."

Margo feels the desire to throw that same refrigerator off a building onto him.

"As I was saying…You've struggled with your weight since elementary school. This is because your mother had a miscarriage, affecting the entire family and triggering a visceral response in you. You gain over fifty pounds. You remain overweight until high school. That is, until a good friend of yours introduces you to cigarettes and her medical cabinet. Judging by your stretch marks, you lose weight quickly. Very quickly. So much so that your parents send you to therapy. This is where the lying begins. God you love this new thin you, and God you love the drugs and alcohol. You've come to the realization that you are very in love with whatever creature you've become. Your parents have no clue. They fret over you for years until your mother gets pregnant just before university. You stop getting the attention now, so you're welcome to spend your last summer wasted out of your mind. It's not until the end of the summer that your mother disappoints you and tells you that because of your new sibling you can no longer live in residence due to financial reasons…"

He takes a breath. His eyes run over Margo. She is incredibly still. He has never seen her so still. Her breath appears to be hitched in her throat.

" So you spend your first three years living at home. Your parents are busy workers, and they make you babysit. You feel imprisoned in your own house. Instead of making friends at university you commit to your art. You get high in your room and write and draw or whatever comes to you and you take care of your sist—"

"My brother."

"Your brother."

Margo's face has grown exceptionally pale, her heart pounding wildly.

"You become out of control, so much so, that one day, your brother won't stop cryi-"

"Stop."

"—But you want to drive somewh—"

"Stop."

"—So you take him wi—"

"I said stop right fucking now."

Sherlock removes his legs from the table.

Margo stares him down, the immense amount of emotion running through her head is written on her face.

"How did you…"

"Everything. The state of your room, the condition of your clothing, the choice of words you use on the phone with your mother, the way you look at children on the street. They give you away."

Margo does not cry, or scream, or even ask another question. Instead, she gets up from her seat and walks right out of the apartment.


	10. Chapter 10

She re-enters 221 Baker Street hours later. She feels vaguely relieved; something about spending a lot of money brought a sense of serene bliss over her. She was aware of the repercussions of retail therapy, but at this moment in time, she needed to remove herself from…well, herself.

After entering the 221, she decides to show off to the boys her new look. She places her ear gently against Sherlock and John's apartment. Not a sound. Purely out of temptation, she fiddles with the handle. It's unlocked. Odd. She inhales briefly, and then enters.

Half-expecting Sherlock to spring out from behind the couch she stands in the doorway in silence, dropping her shopping bags and preparing her body into an odd imitation of what karate might look like.

"Hello?" She calls out, dropping the pose to tug gently at her new black toque that covered her new haircut. She enjoyed the feeling of her shaved undercut in her hands, especially outdoors. An exciting cool breeze was licking at her neck. She had never experienced this sensation with longer hair.

She realizes the apartment is officially empty. She also realizes she may appear to look crazy.

Her eyes take in the room. She feels a sense of guilt in her stomach. She tries to soothe these thoughts by recalling the amount of times John had burst into her room. Not to mention caught her jacking off her jill. For all she knew John very well entered her apartment daily to take a wank in her room. In fact, he could consider this payback. Right? Right.

She still cannot bring herself to move from the doorway. However, that silent urge daring her to take another step was growing stronger with every passing second. This was an opportunity to seek revenge. Not on John (though perhaps if he did masturbate in her room on the daily, now was the time), but on Sherlock! That is, if she chose to take this opportunity. If she could muster the strength to enter Sherlock's room and "look around" maybe, just maybe she co-

"You're not a very good burglar, are you?"

Margo nearly jumps out of her skin. She spins around at an unfamiliarly heightened speed, hand raised. Much to her surprise her hand strikes the face of the very Devil she spoke/thought of just moments ago.

"But I must admit, you do have fast reflexes." He brushes his fingers lightly against the faint pink colouring that was collecting on his face.

She realizes that this was perhaps the first compliment he had given to her since her arrival a few months ago. Of course he would compliment her on her ability to hit him in the face.

"Shit. I am…Jesus, I didn't even know I could do that. I'm sorry." She reaches forward to touch her work.

He swats her hand aside, and steps around her, making his way to sit on his favourite armchair.

"No need. You were simply reacting."

"Here, let me get you some ice."

"That will not be necess—"

"-Just shut up and let me be nice, will you?"

She strides over to the refrigerator, opening the door with enthusiasm and observing the inside. She shuts it and turns around to look over at the Detective.

"Why am I not even surprised?"

He gives her a look as If to say, "I warned you".

"I didn't realize you were partial to ears in your salad." She mocks benignly.

His mouth folds upwards into what might appear to be something strangely similar to a smile. Margo's world could have ended right then and there. The Sherlock Holmes was smiling at something she said. Something wasn't right. She questioned whether or not him and John shagged since she had left. Doubtful. John had better taste than that.

"Did you just…" She begins to formulate a sentence, in which quickly derails into her flushing.

John reenters the apartment, grocery bags in hand.

"What's with all the shopping bags?"

For a moment she has completely forgotten about her original intention for visiting her neighbours. With great excitement, Margo bounds out from the kitchen, throwing her hat off of her head and revealing her new haircut.

"Wow."

John's eyes are the size of saucers. He drops the grocery bags in shock. Margo can feel her stomach practically exploding with excitement; she begins to make jazz hands in a sad attempt to be humorous.

"It's so red!"

She grins in response.

"It's so short!"

"Yup!" She smiles flipping what very little hair was not shaven off of her head.

"Oh. GOD."

Margo's hands drop to her side. She scrunches up her face.

"I'm guessing you don't like it?"

"John dislikes girls that fall under the alternative category."

"Sherlock, that is not true! " He turns his eyes back to her, searching for the right words. "It's just…different."

"It's Billy Walsh!" She spins around excitedly. "Well, at least the very beginnings of her. I thought since we only had a few more days until the awards night that I should get into character."

"I mean, you do look very…"

"Chic? The film world is pretty artsy, John, gotta get in there. Gotta work dat. Gotta live dat life. Gotta shake dat…Ok, I'm done. "

John opens and closes his mouth a few times in rebuttal, but instead ends up picking up the grocery bags and heading to the kitchen in silence.

"Dearest Margaret, what has become of you? With your new red hair has come an uncontrollable ball of energy in which your favourite flat mate is not able to handle at this moment, as he already has another child to deal with. Yours truly, Doctor John Watson."

"Dearest Doctor, It appears that the knowledge of meeting celebrities and engaging with an outrageous amount of talented people has set my brain hardrive off. In fact—"

"Brains aren't anything near the mechanics of a harddri—"

"—Shut up, Sherlock. As I was saying, Dearest Doctor, please forgive me, as you are the only person's company I enjoy in 221B and your approval is much needed. Love, Queen Margaret."

The two send each other wide grins.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" Margo asks, turning to the consulting detective who was examining his freshly scarlet cheek in the reflection of the dusty window.

"Oh, so now you want my opinion?" He replies huffily, crossing his legs in an grandiose fashion.

"Yes. "

"You stiffed her on the tip."

"Excuse me?"

"You could've been a little more generous with the tip."

Margo stands there in silence. She can feel that twisting anger residing in her stomach once more.

"We're you following me?"

He remains silent. She can feel her face burning with embarrassment.

"Were you!?"

He picks up the violin that rests beside him and begins to play.

"Screw you." In one swift motion Margo grabs her shopping bags and exits the apartment.

xXx

"Ok, ok, I hear you, wait a second!"

Margo swings open her door, dressed in nothing but a towel. Her face is extremely flushed, and her newly dyed hair is matted against her forward. She shifts uncomfortably, readjusting her breasts behind the cloth.

"What's up?" She huffs, flipping her hair out of her eyes,

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your…shower?" John looks her up and down for a moment.

"It's cool, I wasn't showering. What did you need?"

John blinks, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

"Naked yoga. It's cool."

Now John furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

"Excellent pastime, Margie. "

"Says the guy who solves crimes."

"Exactly." He smiles at her, avoiding all eye contact with her breasts. To the best of his ability, that is. "Sherlock wants to know if—"

"—I'd have dinner with him? The answer is no." She cheekily pokes her tongue out of her mouth.

"Doubt it. Not to mention his table manners are horrendous, you wouldn't like it."

"Well?"

"He wants to know if you can help us learn film stuff."

Margo practically drops her towel in excitement.

"The Sherlock Holmes needs help!?" Margo releases a mad cackle. John appears to not be as pleased. "Oh, oh, this is splendid! Stupendous! Splendiferous! Phantasmagorical! Not only did I manage to slap him today but I also manage to HUMILIATE him. Lordly Lou, I'm going to write this down as the day that 'THE SHERLOCK FUCKING HOLMES NEEDED MY HELP' and then I'm going to print it professionally. Fuck it, I'll print it twice! One for you and one for m—Wait, no, I'll hang one at the front of the flat, and one in my room, and I'll even tattoo a copy of it on my as—"

"-Is that a yes?"

Margo pauses for a moment.

"Tell him I'll think about it."

With that, Margo shuts the door in the face of her terribly confused flat mate.


	11. Chapter 11

"Ok, ok, ok. " Margo sings as she enters 221B, her newly dyed hair spiked into some sort of punk up-do. Her face is unusually covered in a particularly tan foundation, and her liquid eyeliner was askew.

Sherlock is busy typing away on his computer, researching present and past Oscar nominations. He sweeps his brown curls out of his face and dryly makes a comment to Margo without even turning to so much as look at her.

"Kind of you to knock."

"Ok buddy, let's not even pretend you didn't do that to me on my first week here." Margo pulls out a pile of DVDs rented from the library from her bag. She makes her way over and gently places the stack atop his head. "Also, watch these."

"I'd rather just search up the ending."

Margo lets out an audible, dramatic gasp. Placing the DVDs on the table, she presses the back of her hand to her forehead, swaying back and forth as if she were to faint. "Mr. Holmes! How dare you!"

He stops typing and swivels around to look at her. His lip trembles slightly into a grin as he notices her attempt at doing her own makeup.

"Firstly, a movie isn't just about a plot, it's about the music, and acting, and lighting and editing, and continuity…I mean, thousands of people work on these things for us to enjoy them. These are beautiful collaborations that they have created for people like you and me! Not to mention I got you some of my favourites! I'm basically sharing my diary with you."

Sherlock sighs, turning back to his computer.

"Stop that!" Margo shuts the laptop, causing Sherlock to let out an unimpressed grunt. "Here, I even got you Mulholland Drive by David Lynch. You love mysteries; this one will definitely keep you thinking. "

Sherlock snatches the DVD box from her hand and begins analyzing it almost immediately with caution.

"I also got you a couple documentaries and I grabbed a couple foreign flicks, including this Chinese movie called In the Mood for Love. Stunning flick. Honestly."

Sherlock's eyes dart from DVD to DVD that are scattered in front of him. Finally, after a moment of silence, he turns to her.

"I'll consider it."

Margo considers spitting directly into his left eye, but is thankfully stopped mid-thought by John exiting his bedroom.

"Hello Margapan, what brings you here?"

"Just stopping by to drop off some movies, and to review the plan."

"Alright, I'll be dressed in just a minute"

xXx

"Ok. So, simply put: Amanda Livington according to —"

"-And a client."

"According to and a client, Amanda Livington killed Chelsea Faust's brother."

"Correct."

"Newspapers say he died of a stroke. Apparently it runs in the family. But we know better. "

"Her family history shows no signs of a stroke, though their still is a slight possibility that he could have due to light head trauma at a young age."

"Yes, and…" Margo pauses for a moment, blinking. "How do you know that?"

John answers her question for her as he places two cups of tea in front of her and Sherlock.

"Hacking into things he shouldn't is Sherlock's idea of fun. Especially on my laptop." John sighs, sending his best friend an unhappy grimace before returning to the kitchen to fetch his own cup.

"Well. Have you considered hacking into Amanda's email?"

"Already tried. It's entirely professional. She keeps her personal life strictly on her phone."

"Sounds familiar." John hums as he reenters the room receiving a most curious look from Sherlock.

Margo studies Sherlock's face for a moment, trying to "deduce" what that moment was about. She chooses to let it slide.

"Ok. That makes sense. That's why we want to find a way to steal it at the event, right?"

"Yes. Though it won't be simple. Given the amount of important information on her mobile, she will be keeping a very close eye on it."

"So we need to make her relax and feel comfortable?" John pipes in.

"Yes." Sherlock responds, taking a long sip from his tea.

The three sit for a moment, each in their own "mind palace".

"Are you maybe suggesting…drugging her?" Margo suggests, scraping a hand through her thoroughly gelled hair.

The two men send her a look of disgust.

"What!? No one else was thinking that!? I'm not a rapist or something, I swear I just want to solve this thing and fast."

Sherlock sends her an all to familiar dirty look. Her stomach churns. She wishes her tea would suddenly turn into a bottle of scotch.

"Absolutely not. Not with all the security around. Think before you speak, Margaret."

"You're one to talk." John mutters to no one in particular.

"Don't all celebrities get high and shit?" Margo spits defensively.

"That's not going to work. According to Us Weekly, a few days after the death of Chelsea's brother, Amanda decided to become "straight edge". Meaning no alcohol and no drugs. A poorly written tale about her mother's alcohol addiction follows that information."

"You're such an empathetic soul, Sherlock, truly I don't understand why you're not a poet." Sherlock appears to be especially unhappy about this comment. He turns his cold gaze away from her. "Ok, then, Sherlock, I haven't heard any ideas on your end. Hit me."

He raises an eyebrow in confusion.

"It's an expression Sherlock. She means tell her what idea you have." John sighs.

"We strike up a business plan with her, call her to a private lounge, get her comfy, and grab it."

"Not bad. I'm sure I can think of a movie we can pitch."

John sends a smile her way.

"Ok, my next concern is actually getting in past security?"

"Leave that to me."

"Not on my laptop you won't!"

xXx

He finds her later hunched over to the side of their building hurling her guts out. He could smell the puke before he even exited the door.

"Preparing your liver for this Saturday?"

She spits the rest of the bile from her mouth, and wipes the last of it off her lips with her sleeve.

"Fuck. Off." She huskily says, her eyes not reaching his. She removes her pack of smokes from her jacket pocket, only to find that it is empty. She feels the desire to slam her fist into the wall beside her.

"Why are you even here?"

"Outside?"

"No, on fucking planet earth. "

He stares blankily.

"Sarcasm."

"Hmm." He nods. "I knew you'd be drunk. Your expression earlier was particularly more self-destructive than usual. "

"And you didn't stop me?"

"That's not my job."

In her inebriated state all she can do is allow the wave of tears to rise and conquer. She wants to hit him. She wants to hurt him.

"Wh…Are you crying?"

Tears spilling down her face, she finally looks him in the eyes. Her eyeliner is smudged all over and her mascara is running down her face.

"No. I'm actually grinning ear to ear. In fact, I was just celebrating!" She mimes an imaginary wine glass as she continues to speak with more gusto. "I was celebrating the absolutely splendid time I'm having here! I'm so goddamn thankful for my supportive roommates."

A little bit of spit hits him on the cheek; he sweeps it aside, his face remaining statue-esque as she observes her.

"I was celebrating how awesome and cool I am and how much I can keep a fucking promise! Love you Mom! Here's to being sober!"

And with this she swings her imaginary glass back and downs it.

He remains the opposite of her: even, cold, and unmoving.

She shoves past him and walks up the steps back into the apartment.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Sherly." She snaps before shutting the door behind her.

He gazes down at the DVD of Mulholland Drive in his hand.


End file.
